


All alone and staring into space

by panamdea



Series: Bruises like watermarks [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: X-wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole, Star Wars Legends: X-wing Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4844777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panamdea/pseuds/panamdea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wes Janson at Distna, expecting to die.</p><p>An alternate view of Isard's Revenge, chapter 21.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All alone and staring into space

**Author's Note:**

> None of the archive warnings apply to this fic, but you should know that it really isn't happy. It's from the point of view of a pilot believing he's going to die alone in vacuum so there's a limit to how cheerful it could possibly be.
> 
> This has not been beta read. I would deeply appreciate any feedback.
> 
> ~~~~  
> I’m in a wide open space, I’m standing,  
> I’m all alone, and staring into space  
> …  
> I’m in a wide open space, it’s freezing.  
> There’s something quite bizarre I cannot see.  
>   
>  _Wide Open Space - Mansun_  
>  ~~~~

There was pain, kriff but there was pain. And there was cold and confusion and, distant through the pain and distorted by the commlink in his helmet, his wingman's voice. 

_“Five is EV! Five is EV! Wes, are you alright? Wes? Talk to me Wes!”_

Dimly, painfully, the galaxy faded back in. He became aware of the dogfight raging around him as he drifted and memory began to coalesce into something resembling sense. 

Ambush. Overwhelming odds.

The shattered remains of his X-wing tumbled past his field of view and he realised, with a pang of regret for the fighter and his astromech, that it was a miracle he’d survived whatever it was that had hit him. Concussion missile from the look of it. No wonder he hurt. 

Momentum spun him slowly around and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing he could do about anything really, hanging stranded and helpless as he was. But that wasn’t right, was it? There was something he should do. Something he should say maybe? What? He decided after a while that if he couldn’t remember it couldn’t be that important. 

Hobbie’s voice this time, alternately swearing and calling his name, brought him reluctantly back to a consciousness he hadn't realised he was losing. Hobbie sounded worried about him. Poor Hobbie. He tried to say something to reassure his friend but it was too hard. Hobbie was just going to have to worry for a while. Wouldn’t be much longer, given the odds. His odds? Or Hobbie’s?

He wondered if he’d die from whatever it was that hurt so much. Or if his air would run out, or if he’d get caught by a stray shot. Was it really important how you died when you were listed as killed in action? Because there was no realistic way the Rogues could survive this battle, not against the numbers they were facing. He wondered if anyone would ever know what had happened to them and wondered dimly if he shouldn’t care more about that.

Consciousness was slipping away again, and he didn’t fight. He thought he might be supposed to but it was so much effort and he was tired and cold and he _hurt_ and...

No. That was wrong, staying awake was important. He couldn’t remember why, but it was.

He forced his eyes open and stared blankly at the vista in front of him trying to make his mind work. His lazy spin had turned him away from the main dogfight, facing him towards what, under other circumstances, would have been an awe inspiringly beautiful view. In front of him was Corvis Minor IV reflecting the glow of the system’s sun, a moon peeping out from behind it and pinpricks of starlight visible stretching away into a glorious infinite distance beyond.

Wow. Space was big. 

This thought struck him as strangely amusing and if he hadn’t hurt so much he would have laughed. Then he sobered. Laughter was the wrong response to hanging in vacuum freezing or bleeding to death as your squadron fought and likely died around you, right? He was pretty sure it was, but other than how much he hurt and how cold he was, he wasn’t really sure of anything, it was too hard to think properly, he wanted to sleep, he...

Stop. Focus. Ignore the flaring pain. Think. 

So. 

Space was big and mostly dark and, this far from the system's sun at least, cold. And none of that should have been funny. Maybe he was concussed. Or his air was already running out. He didn’t know how long he’d been hanging there after all, or what damage he'd suffered between his cockpit and vacuum; and he knew from the shards of pain the cold didn't numb accompanying every breath and movement that there was damage he didn't want to think too closely about. Did he even have the usual supply of breathable emergency air? Probably didn’t matter. He was probably dead anyway. 

Probably? Almost definitely. 

Hells but he felt cold.

“Space, even interstellar space away from the warmth of a star, does not feel as cold as you think it will, people.” He could hear his flight instructor back on Tierfon lecturing the training squadron. How many years ago? More years than he’d had any right to have survived anyway. “Basic physics means heat moves from the warmer body to the cooler but there’s not much in a vacuum to transfer heat to so it’ll take longer for your body temperature to drop than you think. Even though your body will be doing its best to warm up its surroundings you'll likely be dead before you can shed enough body heat for hypothermia to be a real problem. If you feel particularly cold before unconsciousness sets in it’ll be psychological or shock from wounds sustained during ejection.”

Shock from wounds sustained during ejection. Yeah, that sounded about right. And soon unconsciousness then... 

Another sudden flash of memory, of watching Hobbie – looking for once almost cheerful as he talked about all the ways you could die in space – give that lecture to their own students. That hadn’t been so very many years ago but still more than either of them had had any real right to have carried on surviving. “For most species in the room, you’ll be unconscious a while before hypothermia will have the chance to kill you. If that doesn't get you, you’ll run out of breathable air in about an hour anyway if you aren't tethered. That's if your mag-con holds and the pressure drop doesn’t kill you first, of course.”

Well, his body was definitely doing its best to warm the vacuum around him. That – and, yes, shock – meant he felt too cold now to even shiver. That was bad news for him so he hoped the vacuum appreciated it.

Now that was a stupid thought. He’d have to tell Hobbie, he at least would appreciate it.

“Hobbie?” No answer. He hadn’t really expected one. Had he?

The dogfight had moved far enough away from him now that he could only see it as flashes of light in the distance. His helmet’s comm, barely powerful enough to pick up more than an occasional murmur above background static at this distance, certainly wasn't powerful enough to transmit far enough to reach the rest of the squadron. Ironic that now he'd finally managed to croak his friend's name, there was no way anyone would hear him. 

Was Hobbie even alive to hear him? Was his flight? Was Wedge?

Was anyone?

He thought it was good he still cared. Didn’t know how much longer he would.

Kriff he _hurt_.

It was a while, he didn't know how long, before he opened his eyes again. He knew he’d blacked out, was distantly surprised he'd woken and wondered if he would again. He vaguely thought he’d heard Hobbie calling his name again but his comm was quiet. Must have been a dream because everything was silent and he couldn’t see the battle anymore.

His mind was slow, effect and cause a difficult thread to navigate, but gradually he realised that if space was empty and his comm was silent, didn’t that mean the battle was over? Mean the Rogues had lost? Because they wouldn’t abandon him it meant he was the only one left. Meant he was alone in the silent, cold _empty_ darkness.

He’d known they couldn’t win, but he hadn’t really believed they’d lose. Not Wedge’s pilots. Not _Rogue Squadron_.

He waited to feel something, any emotion that matched the destruction of his squadron and the death of all his friends. But all he could manage in the face of _too cold, too tired, too hurt_ was distant despair mixed with dull awareness that he wouldn’t be the only survivor for much longer. He knew it couldn’t be much longer now and thought perhaps that was alright. He shouldn't be the only Rogue.


End file.
